Jeff: What is that?
Me: Oh, that's Carrie Bradshaw, my vintage laptop.
Jeff: More like your stone tablet. Did you write the copy with a chisel?
Also, the streets downtown are a sea of superior shoes and handbags.
I fee so...auf'd.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Misty watercolored memories
Getting all Smithsonian this weekend (and helping a certain someone with her grad school essay) has me thinking about museums, and more specifically, the museum gift shop.
The National Museum of the American Indian is your best museum experience and then some: a chance to transcend your own borders, a sacred space where art starts a conversation across time, distance and cultures. I loved every minute of it.
And I wasn't kidding about that totem pole. I don't imagine I'm the first person to notice that my enthusiasm for an exhibit is commensurate with my desire to take some part of it home with me. In fact, I believe I just outlined the museum shop business model. I've been hoarding posters, postcards, art books, notebooks, coasters, umbrellas, jewelry, magnets, board games, tote bags, tee shirts and younameit for years.
Truly, the Native American craftsmanship was exceptionally beautiful. But no matter how much of it I cram into my tiny apartment, it can't recreate the wonder, or the disbelief, or the discovery, or the choked back tears, or the engaging and heartfelt discussion that came afterwards.
I'm all for non-profit institutions selling products to sustain themselves, but it's worth remembering that the true product of any great museum is inspiration. It's the privilege of every artist--every person--to seek out new ways of seeing, and to examine our own landscape through that lens.
Deprived of easy memento(s), this particular museum experience was ever more vivid. I lingered on every tiny bead, memorized every face, and read and reread every incredible detail. I wanted to make sure I took it all home with me.
The National Museum of the American Indian is your best museum experience and then some: a chance to transcend your own borders, a sacred space where art starts a conversation across time, distance and cultures. I loved every minute of it.
And I wasn't kidding about that totem pole. I don't imagine I'm the first person to notice that my enthusiasm for an exhibit is commensurate with my desire to take some part of it home with me. In fact, I believe I just outlined the museum shop business model. I've been hoarding posters, postcards, art books, notebooks, coasters, umbrellas, jewelry, magnets, board games, tote bags, tee shirts and younameit for years.
Truly, the Native American craftsmanship was exceptionally beautiful. But no matter how much of it I cram into my tiny apartment, it can't recreate the wonder, or the disbelief, or the discovery, or the choked back tears, or the engaging and heartfelt discussion that came afterwards.
I'm all for non-profit institutions selling products to sustain themselves, but it's worth remembering that the true product of any great museum is inspiration. It's the privilege of every artist--every person--to seek out new ways of seeing, and to examine our own landscape through that lens.
Deprived of easy memento(s), this particular museum experience was ever more vivid. I lingered on every tiny bead, memorized every face, and read and reread every incredible detail. I wanted to make sure I took it all home with me.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
I went to Washington DC, and all I got were these adorable photos.
You would understand just how monumental this is if you had seen the incredible wares for sale at the National Museum of the American Indian. Any other time in my life, I would've come home with a buckskin war dress, a squash blossom, owl pottery, reed baskets, engraved gords, a papusa maker and a totem pole. You know, for when MTV Cribs films Ugly Betty. Everybody on that show has a pole in their living room.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Fast Times on the 405
Orange County is the Montague to my Capulet. Ours is a love that can never be. A hot, doomed secret.
TRANSPORTATION
Big, easy-driving cars that, I'll say it, make you feel important. Big, fast freeways. Big, angled parking spots in impossibly big lots, where only the first four spots in each row are acceptable. Otherwise it's simply too far to walk in your Jimmy Choos.
ENTERTAINMENT
Copious, delirious shopping. The very fiber of the American retail experience. Really big, really shiny centres (note european spelling) with multiple fountains. Ubiquitous flagship mall boutiques selling $700 shoes. And for the thrifty, multiple TJ Maxx outposts, oases of discounted name brand treasures.
And beaches. Lots of them.
FOOD
Roberto's/Alberto's/Adalberto's/Adalbertito's: Grimy, grease-loving Mexican joints in Spanish-tiled, salmon-and-seafoam-stuccoed strip malls. Where the answer to "Do you cook with lard?" is "Always." Roberto, you talk so dirty!
GENERAL PUBLIC
Real tans, fake boobs. Loafers, no socks. Bluetooth headsets. Skateboards as accessories. And blonde highlights more infectious than MRSA.
WEATHER
78 degrees and sunny, with a light warm breeze. As such, no concept of effective outerwear, unless worn as fashion statement. (See "Boots, Ugg.")
This time around, I felt the usual vehicular guilt, avoided all shopping locations including TJMaxx (major coup), might have spent quality time in sun, and flirted with Roberto, Alberto, Adalberto and Adalbertito daily. Then I came home, bought carbon credits (repent!), and made appointments for yoga (lard consumption), coiffure (infected!), and dermatology (hypochondria).
TRANSPORTATION
Big, easy-driving cars that, I'll say it, make you feel important. Big, fast freeways. Big, angled parking spots in impossibly big lots, where only the first four spots in each row are acceptable. Otherwise it's simply too far to walk in your Jimmy Choos.
ENTERTAINMENT
Copious, delirious shopping. The very fiber of the American retail experience. Really big, really shiny centres (note european spelling) with multiple fountains. Ubiquitous flagship mall boutiques selling $700 shoes. And for the thrifty, multiple TJ Maxx outposts, oases of discounted name brand treasures.
And beaches. Lots of them.
FOOD
Roberto's/Alberto's/Adalberto's/Adalbertito's: Grimy, grease-loving Mexican joints in Spanish-tiled, salmon-and-seafoam-stuccoed strip malls. Where the answer to "Do you cook with lard?" is "Always." Roberto, you talk so dirty!
GENERAL PUBLIC
Real tans, fake boobs. Loafers, no socks. Bluetooth headsets. Skateboards as accessories. And blonde highlights more infectious than MRSA.
WEATHER
78 degrees and sunny, with a light warm breeze. As such, no concept of effective outerwear, unless worn as fashion statement. (See "Boots, Ugg.")
This time around, I felt the usual vehicular guilt, avoided all shopping locations including TJMaxx (major coup), might have spent quality time in sun, and flirted with Roberto, Alberto, Adalberto and Adalbertito daily. Then I came home, bought carbon credits (repent!), and made appointments for yoga (lard consumption), coiffure (infected!), and dermatology (hypochondria).
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The couple standing in front of me at Dollar Rent A Car, LAX:
1. Admit that I am powerless against my desire to judge them for their utter lack of fashion sense.
2. Come to believe that a power greater than myself will teach all Hippies (and Germans) to cease and desist Teva/socks combination.
3. Hope they make a decision to turn their will and their lives over to the care of Tim Gunn, as we understand Him.
4. Make searching and fearless moral inventory of oneself. Shocked to discover that I am a Hippie in chic clothing. Yet find myself unable to cease and desist private mockery of 'Mean People Suck' badge.
5. Admit to self the exact nature of my wrongs: former H&M addiction, snake skin platforms, love of Swine, unnecessary two-mile drive to covered Whole Foods parking lot when raining, secret use of Tilex.
6. Not entirely ready to have Hippies remove these defects of character.
7. Humbly ask couple if they would like help with outfit restructuring?
8. Impossible to make a list of all persons I have judged, silently or otherwise, for sartorial misgivings.
Steps 9-12: I'm working on it.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Ode to HCB, in Free Verse
HCB, you are Hot and Canadian, and my Boyfriend.
But I love you for so much more than that.
You are the inspiration for my Year of Nothing New.
Everybody knows your name at the local Goodwill. Sometimes you go more than once a day.
You've never met an abandoned vacuum you didn't want to rehabilitate.
When you disappear for a few hours on the weekends, I know I'll find you on Haight Street, hoarding previously owned fashions and sniffing old leather jackets.
You're the only person I know who can take a sodering iron to a COMPUTER and not kill yourself or the hardware.
You have twice as many jeans and shoes as I do. And you paid a third of the price.
You love cool old furniture. And even though it's almost never the same cool old furniture I love, so it takes us months to agree on every single god damn piece, Ugly Betty is now a miniature masterpiece.
With your current facial hair arrangement, you need only a healthy dose of eyeliner and you'll be qualified to tie me to a train track. And yet, I find you even more adorable.
You can and do fix EVERYTHING. Your handiness is not only terribly envy-inducing among my friends; it's also sexy.
Which leads me to my final point. You have a butt of godliness. I like to check it out while you're on ladders replacing light bulbs and crawling under the sink.
I thank my lucky stars for finding you and your thrift-happy ways, and for the gluteal benefits of your national pastime.
Unjust Desserts
It's a little stale at this point (both the topic and the eclairs), but I've been out of town for a few days in the mighty County of Orange (more on that to follow), so I'm catching up.
By popular request, I give you, Dear Friends, yet more photographic proof of the underhanded ways of our Martha.
Mine:
Hers:
I'm here to tell you this: there's no way those glistening chocolate love gestures were made by a human. Martha Stewart Collection androids available at Macy*s any day now.
The only thing that rivaled the effort was the end result. I was so busy on VDay that I never even managed to get the eclairs 'n' squares into the heart-shaped box. That night, HCB and I were too loaded up on our $85 a piece in romantic vegetables (or more accurately, the copious amounts of bread and butter we consumed for fear of not being full) that we ended up rather unromantically wolfing down two-day old eclairs en route to the airport at 6:30 am. HCB then surreptitiously took his stash of Liza's lemon squares to work, which prompted Becky, a mutual work friend, to out him to Liza via an email extolling their tangy virtues. Meanwhile, Liza did fill and present her box to her honey, only to have her dogs consume it, leftover contents and all, while she was at work the next day.
Looks like next year we'll be back to good old-fashioned...uh, stuff you don't talk about when you know that your Grandma is reading.
By popular request, I give you, Dear Friends, yet more photographic proof of the underhanded ways of our Martha.
Mine:
Hers:
I'm here to tell you this: there's no way those glistening chocolate love gestures were made by a human. Martha Stewart Collection androids available at Macy*s any day now.
The only thing that rivaled the effort was the end result. I was so busy on VDay that I never even managed to get the eclairs 'n' squares into the heart-shaped box. That night, HCB and I were too loaded up on our $85 a piece in romantic vegetables (or more accurately, the copious amounts of bread and butter we consumed for fear of not being full) that we ended up rather unromantically wolfing down two-day old eclairs en route to the airport at 6:30 am. HCB then surreptitiously took his stash of Liza's lemon squares to work, which prompted Becky, a mutual work friend, to out him to Liza via an email extolling their tangy virtues. Meanwhile, Liza did fill and present her box to her honey, only to have her dogs consume it, leftover contents and all, while she was at work the next day.
Looks like next year we'll be back to good old-fashioned...uh, stuff you don't talk about when you know that your Grandma is reading.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The Giver That Can't...Stop...Giving...
Liza and I have been known to partake of nerdy, overachieving homemaker activities. I think this stems from the fact that we are nerdy overachievers.
Last Valentine's Day, for instance, we made heart-shaped boxes and filled them with homemade baked goods for our honeys.
It sounds so simple when I say it that way. But Martha's projects have a seedy underbelly. She provides purposely vague instructions to ensure her supremacy.
[Martha's box, all perfect and beautiful and secretly assembled by tiny minions.]
The boxes took several hours and involved four different craft stores, three different kinds of adhesive, unruly matte board, insufficiently sharp Xacto knives, missing rulers and illegal use of tape, booze and swear words.
The finished products came out lopsided, missing corners, and were at least two inches away from fitting top to bottom. But they were so hard to make that neither one of us will ever throw them away. We're just gonna keep filling them forever. Which turns out to be a godsend in this Year of the Nothing New.
[Mine, covered in distracting patterns and shot at its most flattering angle.]
After protracted discussion about this year's box contents, Liza chose Meyer lemon squares, and I settled on heart-shaped chocolate eclairs from the same February 2007 issue of Living.
The eclairs took several hours and involved two different grocery stores, a traffic jam, three different recipes-within-the-recipe, unruly batter, insufficient planning, missing ice baths and illegal use of fat-free milk, refrigeration and swear words.
I should have known. I did. I'm a sick, sick, nerdy overachiever.
By 10 PM, I had persevered to the last paragraph of the recipe when I read the words "Serve Immediately".
Mother F%&#er.
Last Valentine's Day, for instance, we made heart-shaped boxes and filled them with homemade baked goods for our honeys.
It sounds so simple when I say it that way. But Martha's projects have a seedy underbelly. She provides purposely vague instructions to ensure her supremacy.
[Martha's box, all perfect and beautiful and secretly assembled by tiny minions.]
The boxes took several hours and involved four different craft stores, three different kinds of adhesive, unruly matte board, insufficiently sharp Xacto knives, missing rulers and illegal use of tape, booze and swear words.
The finished products came out lopsided, missing corners, and were at least two inches away from fitting top to bottom. But they were so hard to make that neither one of us will ever throw them away. We're just gonna keep filling them forever. Which turns out to be a godsend in this Year of the Nothing New.
[Mine, covered in distracting patterns and shot at its most flattering angle.]
After protracted discussion about this year's box contents, Liza chose Meyer lemon squares, and I settled on heart-shaped chocolate eclairs from the same February 2007 issue of Living.
The eclairs took several hours and involved two different grocery stores, a traffic jam, three different recipes-within-the-recipe, unruly batter, insufficient planning, missing ice baths and illegal use of fat-free milk, refrigeration and swear words.
I should have known. I did. I'm a sick, sick, nerdy overachiever.
By 10 PM, I had persevered to the last paragraph of the recipe when I read the words "Serve Immediately".
Mother F%&#er.
Outfit Emergency Syndrome: Double Jeopardy
Party OES: I'm hosting a cocktail party for a fashion client in southern California on Friday. They make clothes; I like clothes. They're tan; I'm transparent. A new outfit is my only chance. Without proper attire, I'll be fired, run out of the building, will rue day forever, etc.
Date OES: Thursday is Valentine's Day. HCB is taking me on a hot date. The least I can do is show up in an outfit he's never once been asked to assess for ass fatness.
Setting: Tuesday night. My only available shopping day. Have already been to two Crossroads locations and a vintage shop. Cris, doyenne of high-end consignment stores, is my last chance. Sixteen minutes until closing.
Cue Rocky soundtrack.
5:44 pm: Cross threshold frazzled, frizzy (follicles very sensitive to stress), slightly out of breath and willing myself not to sweat. Also, have neglected to feed parking meter.
5:45 pm: Head straight for the black rack. Black is smart. A last-season little black dress, by virtue of being a little black dress, is safe from scorn. I'm thinking sheath. I'm thinking structure with sex appeal. I'm thinking Roland Mouret.
5:47 pm: I get Banana Republic (frumpy) and Theory (massive breast displacement). Also, have I mentioned that I have the longest torso in America? Structured sheaths are a pipe dream. Need new plan.
5:48 pm: Distracted by jeans rack. Love jeans. Need new jeans. Jeans Jeans Jeans. What am I shopping for again?
5:50 pm: Focus! Scan all remaining dress racks with laser precision. Thinking mini. Thinking empire. Thinking anything that's not this bright orange D&G Jackson Pollack tribute with the suggestive brush strokes. Money and taste: so tragic to have one without the other.
5:51: Wait, am I trying to buy one outfit or TWO? Is it even possible to find a single ensemble that can accommodate SoCal happy hour AND NorCal restaurant scene?
5:52: Exhume three-seasons-ago salmon floral Tracy Reese with netting from depths of orange rack. Re-scan black rack and find hidden Marc by Marc Jacobs aubergine silk mini with empire waist and bracelet sleeves. His fit model is my arch nemesis, but this is cute and I am desperate.
5:53: Attempt to put on first dress while wearing heels. Fall over and almost knock out entire row of canvas dressing room stalls. Woman in next stall gets view of be-thonged ass as it crashes unceremoniously to floor.
5:54: Mental note: do not wear salmon near legs in winter. Accentuates visible vein network.
5:55: Is it, does it, wait, it's two pieces. Where's the zipper? Wait, HOW do I get this thing on?
5:56: Oh! Cute! Or...is it cute? Do my legs look fat? Must put on glasses. Am I a giant Kewpie doll? It's too dark in here. Cannot find three-way mirror. Sales girls are glaring at me.
5:57: Surprised to find that Marc fits for first time in life. And size small at that. Seems suspicious...
5:58: Sleeves are flowy, whole thing is sort of...breezy. Have I been infected with SNED (Stevie Nicks Ethereality Disorder)? Next thing I know, I'll be accessorizing with dreamcatchers and feather roach clips.
5:59: Then again, it's flirty. Modern. Fun. Marc wouldn't let me down. (Yes he would.) But with clever application of black opaque tights, I can indeed kill two OES with one Marc!
6:00: They've turned off the music. I return favor by not rehanging dressing room detritus.
6:01: Scan dress for flaws, snags, makeup stains. Temporarily snag fabric with own nail in process.
6:03: A done deal for $139. Only history will tell. No returns or exchanges. And thankfully, no parking ticket.
Date OES: Thursday is Valentine's Day. HCB is taking me on a hot date. The least I can do is show up in an outfit he's never once been asked to assess for ass fatness.
Setting: Tuesday night. My only available shopping day. Have already been to two Crossroads locations and a vintage shop. Cris, doyenne of high-end consignment stores, is my last chance. Sixteen minutes until closing.
Cue Rocky soundtrack.
5:44 pm: Cross threshold frazzled, frizzy (follicles very sensitive to stress), slightly out of breath and willing myself not to sweat. Also, have neglected to feed parking meter.
5:45 pm: Head straight for the black rack. Black is smart. A last-season little black dress, by virtue of being a little black dress, is safe from scorn. I'm thinking sheath. I'm thinking structure with sex appeal. I'm thinking Roland Mouret.
5:47 pm: I get Banana Republic (frumpy) and Theory (massive breast displacement). Also, have I mentioned that I have the longest torso in America? Structured sheaths are a pipe dream. Need new plan.
5:48 pm: Distracted by jeans rack. Love jeans. Need new jeans. Jeans Jeans Jeans. What am I shopping for again?
5:50 pm: Focus! Scan all remaining dress racks with laser precision. Thinking mini. Thinking empire. Thinking anything that's not this bright orange D&G Jackson Pollack tribute with the suggestive brush strokes. Money and taste: so tragic to have one without the other.
5:51: Wait, am I trying to buy one outfit or TWO? Is it even possible to find a single ensemble that can accommodate SoCal happy hour AND NorCal restaurant scene?
5:52: Exhume three-seasons-ago salmon floral Tracy Reese with netting from depths of orange rack. Re-scan black rack and find hidden Marc by Marc Jacobs aubergine silk mini with empire waist and bracelet sleeves. His fit model is my arch nemesis, but this is cute and I am desperate.
5:53: Attempt to put on first dress while wearing heels. Fall over and almost knock out entire row of canvas dressing room stalls. Woman in next stall gets view of be-thonged ass as it crashes unceremoniously to floor.
5:54: Mental note: do not wear salmon near legs in winter. Accentuates visible vein network.
5:55: Is it, does it, wait, it's two pieces. Where's the zipper? Wait, HOW do I get this thing on?
5:56: Oh! Cute! Or...is it cute? Do my legs look fat? Must put on glasses. Am I a giant Kewpie doll? It's too dark in here. Cannot find three-way mirror. Sales girls are glaring at me.
5:57: Surprised to find that Marc fits for first time in life. And size small at that. Seems suspicious...
5:58: Sleeves are flowy, whole thing is sort of...breezy. Have I been infected with SNED (Stevie Nicks Ethereality Disorder)? Next thing I know, I'll be accessorizing with dreamcatchers and feather roach clips.
5:59: Then again, it's flirty. Modern. Fun. Marc wouldn't let me down. (Yes he would.) But with clever application of black opaque tights, I can indeed kill two OES with one Marc!
6:00: They've turned off the music. I return favor by not rehanging dressing room detritus.
6:01: Scan dress for flaws, snags, makeup stains. Temporarily snag fabric with own nail in process.
6:03: A done deal for $139. Only history will tell. No returns or exchanges. And thankfully, no parking ticket.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Bowing to Peer Pressure
As usual, the room is full of hotties.
Hotties in color-coordinated lululemonPrAnaHardTailNike, frontin' like Yogi is their name and Level Three is their game.
It's noon on Monday, a choice time for a freelance writer to blow off some adjectives with a free-flowing yoga class.
But my pants have more pills than the Valley of the Dolls. And don't even get me started on the thorough dusting of follicles they've attracted from pets I don't own.
Now, before anybody tries the whole "You don't 'get' yoga if you think fashion matters on the mat," seriously? Shut Up.
1) I know your kind. The chances are very good that you're just being pretentious.
2) Fashion always matters.
3) They might as well hold trend whore CONVENTIONS at yoga and Pilates studios. All we need are badges.
Now I paid $80something for these pants just a year ago. They honor my booty, yes. And they're highly functional, obvi. But I hate that I look like I've been mingling with Persian long hairs and sand paper between classes. And Vishnu only knows what they're made of.
So let's just say I could justify buying a new pair, as an Necessity.
(Because if I did, they would most definitely be NEW.)
What would I buy?
Not lululemon again. Even if they do hem to fit my legginess, I do not support planned obsolescence masquerading as fashion.
Hard Tail is all-American, all non-organic cotton. And while it may be The Fabric of Our Lives, by accounting for 70% of the world's pesticide use, it's also The Death of Our Ecosystems.
PrAna's one pair of organic cotton pants is poorly designed, the colors are for blind people and the inseam is too short. Ditto on the hemp pair.
Speaking of inseams, Marika's Shiva Shakti line makes me look like I've outgrown my Commune Cousin's hand-me-downs.
Nike has a couple of DriFit options with 61% organic cotton, but the rest is nylon and Spandex (boo). And anyway, their low-rise eclipses my belly button.
All of Athleta's fabrications have TMs. This is not a good sign.
Gaiam.com, you actually sell this, which cannot bode well for our relationship.
And Patagonia, I love everything you stand for, but I wouldn't be caught dead doing the standing splits in anything you make.
Now I'm not saying I've exhausted all the options here. I'm just illustrating the point that it's sure as hell not easy to make sustainable clothing choices that aren't, well, ugly.
I have a newfound respect for that crazy-looking older lady in the braided headband and tie-dyed unitard. That could be me some day.
Hotties in color-coordinated lululemonPrAnaHardTailNike, frontin' like Yogi is their name and Level Three is their game.
It's noon on Monday, a choice time for a freelance writer to blow off some adjectives with a free-flowing yoga class.
But my pants have more pills than the Valley of the Dolls. And don't even get me started on the thorough dusting of follicles they've attracted from pets I don't own.
Now, before anybody tries the whole "You don't 'get' yoga if you think fashion matters on the mat," seriously? Shut Up.
1) I know your kind. The chances are very good that you're just being pretentious.
2) Fashion always matters.
3) They might as well hold trend whore CONVENTIONS at yoga and Pilates studios. All we need are badges.
Now I paid $80something for these pants just a year ago. They honor my booty, yes. And they're highly functional, obvi. But I hate that I look like I've been mingling with Persian long hairs and sand paper between classes. And Vishnu only knows what they're made of.
So let's just say I could justify buying a new pair, as an Necessity.
(Because if I did, they would most definitely be NEW.)
What would I buy?
Not lululemon again. Even if they do hem to fit my legginess, I do not support planned obsolescence masquerading as fashion.
Hard Tail is all-American, all non-organic cotton. And while it may be The Fabric of Our Lives, by accounting for 70% of the world's pesticide use, it's also The Death of Our Ecosystems.
PrAna's one pair of organic cotton pants is poorly designed, the colors are for blind people and the inseam is too short. Ditto on the hemp pair.
Speaking of inseams, Marika's Shiva Shakti line makes me look like I've outgrown my Commune Cousin's hand-me-downs.
Nike has a couple of DriFit options with 61% organic cotton, but the rest is nylon and Spandex (boo). And anyway, their low-rise eclipses my belly button.
All of Athleta's fabrications have TMs. This is not a good sign.
Gaiam.com, you actually sell this, which cannot bode well for our relationship.
And Patagonia, I love everything you stand for, but I wouldn't be caught dead doing the standing splits in anything you make.
Now I'm not saying I've exhausted all the options here. I'm just illustrating the point that it's sure as hell not easy to make sustainable clothing choices that aren't, well, ugly.
I have a newfound respect for that crazy-looking older lady in the braided headband and tie-dyed unitard. That could be me some day.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Circle of Life, Accelerated.
Dear Liza,
HCB and I met CC for dinner last night. I built another ensemble around that booby GFFerre blouse, hoping for a better reception. Turns out CC disagrees with your Ren Faire likening; instead, he invoked the Lilith Fair, and suggested that with the franchise now defunct, perhaps I could wear it to a Tori Amos concert.
This morning I read the blouse a quiet eulogy and placed it in a bag for transit to SFGreenClean, where it will be sustainably de-cootied and then inequitably traded at our neighborhood Crossroads Trading Company.
On a separate note, do you remember that beguiling little Free People rain coat I tried to peer pressure you into buying on Friday? It visits my dreams at night. I did an internet search and found it 20 bucks cheaper, in a variety of charming colors.
(I myself still prefer black.)
I just thought you should know.
Love,
Natalie
HCB and I met CC for dinner last night. I built another ensemble around that booby GFFerre blouse, hoping for a better reception. Turns out CC disagrees with your Ren Faire likening; instead, he invoked the Lilith Fair, and suggested that with the franchise now defunct, perhaps I could wear it to a Tori Amos concert.
This morning I read the blouse a quiet eulogy and placed it in a bag for transit to SFGreenClean, where it will be sustainably de-cootied and then inequitably traded at our neighborhood Crossroads Trading Company.
On a separate note, do you remember that beguiling little Free People rain coat I tried to peer pressure you into buying on Friday? It visits my dreams at night. I did an internet search and found it 20 bucks cheaper, in a variety of charming colors.
(I myself still prefer black.)
I just thought you should know.
Love,
Natalie
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Before I Get Off My Cake Stand...
It's hot and sunny again today. Swathes of shockingly pale people, myself included, are pouring into parks all over town for a dose of Vitamin D.
S.A.D. is like, so last week.
It's a little off topic, but I've been thinking some more about food, and about how, all San Fran Smuggery aside, I derive so much pleasure from following the farm-to-table trail.
So I'm just going to take a second to gush about Eatwell Farm, the CSA we subscribe to in Dixon, CA.
Every two weeks, I get a box full of muddy/imperfect/delicious organic produce and pasture-raised eggs. Behold this week's cornucopia:
Farmer Nigel Walker gave my friend Jenn and me a farm tour last summer. This is a passionate, kind, intelligent man who wants the best for everybody: his customers, his employees, his sons, the earth. His seeds are happily acclimated,
his bees know exactly where to find Home Sweet Home,
and his chickens are masters of Transcendental Meditation.
Walking the fields was like plundering Whole Foods sample tables, Pastoral-style;
we ate the corn off the cob off the stalk,
selected our plums straight from the trees,
filled our cheeks with cherry tomatoes,
invented new exercise regimens for the chickens and piglets (choga and Piglates, respectively),
and got trailed by a suspicious hen.
I was ready to become Farmer Natalie right then and there.
But I know I don't have it in me. Nigel writes a weekly newsletter that accompanies the box, and he has a blog, too. This year, his subscribers have seen him weather a crippling Med Fly quarantine, the cruel murder of his lovely guard dog, Sadie,
and the infestation of his delicious broccoli by bastard aphids. It's a tough profession, full of sweat, mud, manure, bugs and disappointing P&L reports.
The more you read, the more Nigel and his team start to feel like family. You love them and root for them, and want to do whatever you can to help them succeed.
I wish I could say the same for every other business I patronize.
*You might have noticed a vast improvement in photo quality. Jenn took them.
S.A.D. is like, so last week.
It's a little off topic, but I've been thinking some more about food, and about how, all San Fran Smuggery aside, I derive so much pleasure from following the farm-to-table trail.
So I'm just going to take a second to gush about Eatwell Farm, the CSA we subscribe to in Dixon, CA.
Every two weeks, I get a box full of muddy/imperfect/delicious organic produce and pasture-raised eggs. Behold this week's cornucopia:
Farmer Nigel Walker gave my friend Jenn and me a farm tour last summer. This is a passionate, kind, intelligent man who wants the best for everybody: his customers, his employees, his sons, the earth. His seeds are happily acclimated,
his bees know exactly where to find Home Sweet Home,
and his chickens are masters of Transcendental Meditation.
Walking the fields was like plundering Whole Foods sample tables, Pastoral-style;
we ate the corn off the cob off the stalk,
selected our plums straight from the trees,
filled our cheeks with cherry tomatoes,
invented new exercise regimens for the chickens and piglets (choga and Piglates, respectively),
and got trailed by a suspicious hen.
I was ready to become Farmer Natalie right then and there.
But I know I don't have it in me. Nigel writes a weekly newsletter that accompanies the box, and he has a blog, too. This year, his subscribers have seen him weather a crippling Med Fly quarantine, the cruel murder of his lovely guard dog, Sadie,
and the infestation of his delicious broccoli by bastard aphids. It's a tough profession, full of sweat, mud, manure, bugs and disappointing P&L reports.
The more you read, the more Nigel and his team start to feel like family. You love them and root for them, and want to do whatever you can to help them succeed.
I wish I could say the same for every other business I patronize.
*You might have noticed a vast improvement in photo quality. Jenn took them.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Delicious Luxury
Today is a glorious day. Warm! Bright! Sunshine!
Today is NOT a day to complain about how hard it is not to buy stuff, no.
Today is a glass-half-full of mimosa sort of day, a day to bask in the sun for at least seven minutes before thinking about The Cancer.
So let's talk positive. There are several boutiques in town where I can shop with diplomatic immunity. Places that offer a full sensory experience: behold the colors, inhale the fragrances, partake of the hottest trends. Places even more satisfying than the secret half-off sale at ab fits.
People, when you have cash burning a hole in your pocket, I highly recommend the retail therapy available at your local gourmet food shop.
I love food. And in San Francisco, the Slower the Food, the better. (McDonald's patrons here have to battle their way through throngs of protesters hurling stink eyes, rotten organic heirloom tomatoes, and when things get really violent, lovingly worn copies of The Omnivore's Dilemma.)
Now the Slower the Food, the faster the Benjamins fly. But I can feel GOOD about blowing my wad on this stuff. Happy, organic, know-thy-farmer food costs more $$$ because those farmers take the time, energy and patience to make your victuals delicious and nutritious. These are some Q1 profits I WANT to boost.
I went to BiRite yesterday and had a $117.78 ball.
I know what tree my kumquats came from, I know the life history of the guy who made my bittersweet chocolate, and my $12 worth of ricotta cheese came with the dairy farmer's cell number on the container.
And then Martha helped me turn it into this:
I'm happier than J.Crew's Spring color palette.
Today is NOT a day to complain about how hard it is not to buy stuff, no.
Today is a glass-half-full of mimosa sort of day, a day to bask in the sun for at least seven minutes before thinking about The Cancer.
So let's talk positive. There are several boutiques in town where I can shop with diplomatic immunity. Places that offer a full sensory experience: behold the colors, inhale the fragrances, partake of the hottest trends. Places even more satisfying than the secret half-off sale at ab fits.
People, when you have cash burning a hole in your pocket, I highly recommend the retail therapy available at your local gourmet food shop.
I love food. And in San Francisco, the Slower the Food, the better. (McDonald's patrons here have to battle their way through throngs of protesters hurling stink eyes, rotten organic heirloom tomatoes, and when things get really violent, lovingly worn copies of The Omnivore's Dilemma.)
Now the Slower the Food, the faster the Benjamins fly. But I can feel GOOD about blowing my wad on this stuff. Happy, organic, know-thy-farmer food costs more $$$ because those farmers take the time, energy and patience to make your victuals delicious and nutritious. These are some Q1 profits I WANT to boost.
I went to BiRite yesterday and had a $117.78 ball.
I know what tree my kumquats came from, I know the life history of the guy who made my bittersweet chocolate, and my $12 worth of ricotta cheese came with the dairy farmer's cell number on the container.
And then Martha helped me turn it into this:
I'm happier than J.Crew's Spring color palette.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
You can't stay here, Mickey.
I love you, but things just aren't working out between us. I'm going to set you up with Helen. I've already told her all about you.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Meeting Outfit Emergency Syndrome (MOES):
A condition in which the meeting attendee becomes convinced, on the eve of said meeting, that she MUST have a new outfit for the event. If she does not manage to acquire said outfit in the 15-30 minutes between the end of her workday and the closure of necessary retail outlets, she is up all night recombining separates in her head and fearing private mockery by stylish colleagues. The syndrome, though likely psychosomatic, often results in actual mockery, as the previous night's lack of sleep can lead to unintentionally hilarious malapropisms, misnomers and pratfalls.
I attended an all-day meeting today in Portland. Thankfully the logistics fell into place so late that I didn't have time to even THINK about (used) window shopping. So it was ye olde skinny jeans and black turtleneck for me. My modern Joan of Arc look.
I will say this for MOES: I've found some of my most cherished pieces in those mad dashes. Then again, it's also how I once ended up with a pair of denim gauchos. And the mockery I've endured for them has been entirely public.
I attended an all-day meeting today in Portland. Thankfully the logistics fell into place so late that I didn't have time to even THINK about (used) window shopping. So it was ye olde skinny jeans and black turtleneck for me. My modern Joan of Arc look.
I will say this for MOES: I've found some of my most cherished pieces in those mad dashes. Then again, it's also how I once ended up with a pair of denim gauchos. And the mockery I've endured for them has been entirely public.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
A Moveable Feast, with Disappearing Candlesticks
This weekend we had Ted and Misty and Dylan and Emily over for what turned out to be an excellently raucous dinner party.
I was thrilled with the general outcome. Apart from the fantastic company and crackling conversation, the meal was lip-smacking and the table was eye-catching, all dolled up in trademark Ugly Betty hues of mandarin, robin's egg blue and mango, with my vintage California pottery proffering the luscious comestibles.
So contented was I that I let myself drift off into the dancing flame of my bold, beautiful dripless candlesticks.Drunk Entranced, I watched them ever so slowly disappear into the ether...
And then I realized they were slowly disappearing into the ether. And I wasn't going to get another set until 2009.
And then I was mad.
"This whole stupid exercise is a stupid exercise," asserted my finely honed Sense of Entitlement.
"You can get another pair! Dripless candlesticks are the least of the world's worries," said my expert enabler, Rational Thought.
"I REQUIRE pretty stuff!" screamed my Inner Martha.
And then I told the voices to shut up and got back to forcing my political views on my dinner guests.
Anyway, the point is this: I am sad that these beauties are half gone, and when this retail South Beach diet is over, I wouldn't be surprised to find myself back in that adorable shop in Laurel Village, handing over gobs of money for a lifetime supply. But not until it's over. Because I'm beginning to think the candlesticks are the whole point. I love beautiful things, but I was already surrounded by them: the Hottest Canadian Sous Chef (HCSC) ever; hilarious, informed, intellectually engaging friends; standing rib roast so rare it mooed us a love song; wine, wine, more wine, wine; and the requisite artisan dairy prod, including fresh horseradish cream and a kick-ass cheese course.
Now really, that doesn't sound much like doing without, does it?
I was thrilled with the general outcome. Apart from the fantastic company and crackling conversation, the meal was lip-smacking and the table was eye-catching, all dolled up in trademark Ugly Betty hues of mandarin, robin's egg blue and mango, with my vintage California pottery proffering the luscious comestibles.
So contented was I that I let myself drift off into the dancing flame of my bold, beautiful dripless candlesticks.
And then I realized they were slowly disappearing into the ether. And I wasn't going to get another set until 2009.
And then I was mad.
"This whole stupid exercise is a stupid exercise," asserted my finely honed Sense of Entitlement.
"You can get another pair! Dripless candlesticks are the least of the world's worries," said my expert enabler, Rational Thought.
"I REQUIRE pretty stuff!" screamed my Inner Martha.
And then I told the voices to shut up and got back to forcing my political views on my dinner guests.
Anyway, the point is this: I am sad that these beauties are half gone, and when this retail South Beach diet is over, I wouldn't be surprised to find myself back in that adorable shop in Laurel Village, handing over gobs of money for a lifetime supply. But not until it's over. Because I'm beginning to think the candlesticks are the whole point. I love beautiful things, but I was already surrounded by them: the Hottest Canadian Sous Chef (HCSC) ever; hilarious, informed, intellectually engaging friends; standing rib roast so rare it mooed us a love song; wine, wine, more wine, wine; and the requisite artisan dairy prod, including fresh horseradish cream and a kick-ass cheese course.
Now really, that doesn't sound much like doing without, does it?
Monday, February 4, 2008
Shopping for a candidate.
Hope you're all as excited about Super Tuesday as I am. Aside from how and where we spend our money, our vote is our loudest voice.
It's been a tough decision-making process for me, but I'm happy to say that I've selected the candidate I believe is the most qualified, inspiring, and the best representation of the way I think. I'm proud to give her my vote.
It's been a tough decision-making process for me, but I'm happy to say that I've selected the candidate I believe is the most qualified, inspiring, and the best representation of the way I think. I'm proud to give her my vote.
Sunday afternoon on Fillmore Street
So much of the success of this endeavor depends on keeping oneself out of harm's way. No more Fashion Week blogs. No more Design*Sponge. No mightygoods, no J.Crew catalog, no W Mag. Nothing to shatter the carefully curated illusion that I'm not missing anything.
But in my current mindset, even an innocent glass of wine at The Grove is a running of the gauntlet.
As medieval-style tortures go, I suppose it could have been worse. I could've been pilloried and had the half-price stilettos chucked at my head.
But in my current mindset, even an innocent glass of wine at The Grove is a running of the gauntlet.
As medieval-style tortures go, I suppose it could have been worse. I could've been pilloried and had the half-price stilettos chucked at my head.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Apropos of absolutely nothing, unless you're discussing mimes or clichés.
I slipped on a banana peel tonight. An actual banana peel. I slipped on it. On the street. And not Sesame Street, either. Just a regular street.
I am in awe. Had to tell the world. Consider it a public safety message.
I am in awe. Had to tell the world. Consider it a public safety message.
Friday, February 1, 2008
It's like Quicken Earth.
Hello February.
One down, 11 more to go. Seems like a monthly tally would be a smart thing to do. And if I buckle down and do it on the first of each month, then I won't be stuck at my desk all day on April 14th, 2009, cursing and fabricating eco-farces.
SINS
You've already heard about my attractive blue business expenditures. I also bought four magazines. They were work research, but still.
And...Oh Schitt! I bought a lingerie bag at Nordstrom on January 11th! I didn't even THINK about it when I did it. All month I've been wandering around all smug and stuff, only to discover that my subconscious will shop with or without me. Nature always finds a way.
ADMISSIBLE NECESSITIES
(PREVIOUSLY OWNED) FRIVOLITIES
Three fab bargain tees, three ill-fitting shotgun schmattas, one slinky silk cami and one Ren Faire blouse. Plus the vintage placemats and Almighty Muffin Tin.
TECHNICALITIES
I wonder: does an album purchased on iTunes count? Since there is no packaging, no shipping and nothing to store in my apartment, apart from megabytes? I say no. So Jesca Hoop gets to go into the Frivolities category for the final tally.
Also: how about financial instruments? I opened a new money market account in January. I also make automatic contributions to my IRA every month. I do receive printed materials. Hmmm. Still seems sufficiently intangible to stay out of the Sins column. And besides, where am I supposed to put all this money I'm saving by not buying stuff?
ABSTENTIONS
Obvi.
Also, these hot-ass 70's silhouette jeans. (The ones on her, not on him. But come to think of it, those man pants would look mighty fine on HCB. Everything looks mighty fine on HCB.) And while we're being brutally honest, let's admit that I have eyes for those platforms, too.
And the entire J. Crew catalog. Mickey Drexler, you rock my world. I cry myself to sleep at night pining for your posh prints and jewel-toned cashmere.
One down, 11 more to go. Seems like a monthly tally would be a smart thing to do. And if I buckle down and do it on the first of each month, then I won't be stuck at my desk all day on April 14th, 2009, cursing and fabricating eco-farces.
SINS
You've already heard about my attractive blue business expenditures. I also bought four magazines. They were work research, but still.
And...Oh Schitt! I bought a lingerie bag at Nordstrom on January 11th! I didn't even THINK about it when I did it. All month I've been wandering around all smug and stuff, only to discover that my subconscious will shop with or without me. Nature always finds a way.
ADMISSIBLE NECESSITIES
(PREVIOUSLY OWNED) FRIVOLITIES
Three fab bargain tees, three ill-fitting shotgun schmattas, one slinky silk cami and one Ren Faire blouse. Plus the vintage placemats and Almighty Muffin Tin.
TECHNICALITIES
I wonder: does an album purchased on iTunes count? Since there is no packaging, no shipping and nothing to store in my apartment, apart from megabytes? I say no. So Jesca Hoop gets to go into the Frivolities category for the final tally.
Also: how about financial instruments? I opened a new money market account in January. I also make automatic contributions to my IRA every month. I do receive printed materials. Hmmm. Still seems sufficiently intangible to stay out of the Sins column. And besides, where am I supposed to put all this money I'm saving by not buying stuff?
ABSTENTIONS
Obvi.
Also, these hot-ass 70's silhouette jeans. (The ones on her, not on him. But come to think of it, those man pants would look mighty fine on HCB. Everything looks mighty fine on HCB.) And while we're being brutally honest, let's admit that I have eyes for those platforms, too.
And the entire J. Crew catalog. Mickey Drexler, you rock my world. I cry myself to sleep at night pining for your posh prints and jewel-toned cashmere.
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